


Titles Just Exist To Distract You From The Story

by The Key To Imagine (whiskeywit)



Category: The Beatles
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-25
Updated: 2017-03-25
Packaged: 2018-10-10 13:47:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10439022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeywit/pseuds/The%20Key%20To%20Imagine
Summary: Title: Titles Just Exist To Distract You From The StoryRating: PG-13Warning: Heavy on the side of CrackDisclaimer: I don't own them and never will. This is based on fiction, not facts.A/N: Written just for fun, really :') I hope you'll enjoy this story. Don't ask about deeper/hidden meanings because there are none, or never intentional anyway. Ordinary comments uttering praise and love for the words you read on the screen are welcomed, though.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Backup of old fic originally posted to the Beatles community JohnheartPaul, currently residing on key_to_imagine, currently in locked status. Summary contains the header as is on the LJ post.
> 
> Originally posted 25 APRIL 2010

Titles Just Exist To Distract You From The Story  
  
  
So, here is the deal. In an Alternate Universe, too far from here to travel to and quite possibly set in a different time frame as well, Paul had a 'Lost Weekend' of his own. There was, however, a difference between his' and John's, as Paul's lasted and lasted and lasted.  
  
Detective John, or alas, that was how he called himself (because obviously he was a musician, not a detective) came over to the great Great Britain (visit it if you haven't yet, and flee it if you live there was the best advice John could've given but he didn't so the writeress of this story will) to visit Linda, Paul's lovely wife. This was mostly for a purely egoistical reason: if there was no Paul who wrote songs there was no Paul he could bash and it really was John's greatest hobby. Ever.  
  
As it was, John went to visit the small farm that had been plopped onto the Scottish countryside mere centuries before. The moment Linda opened the door she burst out in tears (it sounded a bit like wèèèèh although that also could have been the baby in the barn in the living room in that small Scottish farm nearby the Mull of Kintyre in the beautiful landscape John would have adored if he hadn't _despised_ the countryside; no matter if Paul had a million-dollar worth seaside view from his shed window – it was some million miles away but if the weather was very clear Paul might've been able to see it with the aid of some wishful thinking and a cornily over-active imagination in his head, not his dick, his dick was only interested in different things and John knew about that all to well and-).  
  
And Linda told John very seriously that her husband had died not too long ago.  
  
“He was out at night,” she sniffed, “and he took his usual dinner so he was very aware of the risks he was taking-”  
  
“Not to interrupt you or anything,” John interrupted Linda interruptingly, “but what was his usual dinner?”  
  
“Oh you should know,” Linda gracefully swiped away a tear with her little finger so John supposed she'd had a lot of practise at that, “a scotch and a beer and a coke and sometimes a pill or two. Anyhow, he decided he wanted to ride a cow that evening and I supposed it would be all right because, John, you see, you don't need a licence to ride a cow-”  
  
“Nor do you need a licence to ride a woman, not even a marriage,” John muttered under his breath but Linda did not notice and continued with her sob story.  
  
“But anyway, he wanted to ride a cow and then took the bull instead,” Linda dissolved in great long squeaking breaths again and hid her head in her hands. For about three minutes, and then she looked up at John again. “You should have seen him the next morning, you should have,” she sobbed and sniffed and snorted loudly to keep back the snot, “he was all trampled and bruised and you could see where the horns pierced his poor body.”  
  
“Bollocks,” John replied, “people never show that on TV so it can never happen in real life either.” Not that there was a lot of violence on TV back then and John was very against it so even if there was he wouldn't have watched it but he said it just for form. Linda nodded.  
  
“We never announced it publicly exactly for that reason,” she said.  
  
“Wait, who is we?” John peeped up, noticing the plural form because he was so very bright even under influence.  
  
“The cows and I,” Linda said, “we connect very well spiritually.”  
  
“Okay,” John said, fighting hard to suppress the raise of his left eyebrow and roll of his eyes.  
  
“I couldn't cope with it, so we had a private funeral. It was very beautiful,” Linda sniffed again. “You should visit him if you'd want to.” Then she slammed the door in John's face. John knocked again because he was fairly sure not everything was fine with Linda but was only greeted with a very loud kind of music that made his stomach grumble unpleasantly (or perhaps that was just the hunger, he'd assumed Linda would invite him in for coffee and cookies and perhaps cornflakes but John got no cookies so he sat outside the house (shed) and bawled his eyes out whilst imagining the imaginary million dollar water views behind him and how picturesque he must've looked; perhaps Yoko would make something avant-garde out of it.).  
  
Then.  
  
Yes. Then. Then John started searching every graveyard in the UK. From the large public ones to singular graves in forgotten gardens the police had yet to find. He even went to Wales. And Ireland. John didn't want to miss a single grave. When he had memorised every grave (well, figuratively speaking of course, nobody could do that except Autistic Savants but John was a borderline patient and had been so all his life) he nearly gave up and went to visit Oscar Wilde's grave on the Cimetiere du Père-Lachaise in Paris, France.  
  
He happened to stumble upon a newly built looking tomb with cows on it and flowers and a sea in the million-miles distance. John walked in and in the brightly lit area he found a glass coffin. It scared the fuck out of him because in it was no-one but Paul McCartney. Passer-bys had scratched the name “Billy” into the nameless stone but John would have recognised those unique eyelashes everywhere.  
  
It is eerie but it is true because John was there to witness it: Paul, whose body hadn't rotten at all because he was such a god-damned perfect bastard, opened his eyes. John jumped up with a small girly shriek and then promptly fell backwards in a faint. After he regained consciousness he walked back to his hotel room which was situated in a dastardly kept hotel and fell in a deep dreamless sleep. The next morning he returned to the Paul's grave but there was nobody to be seen. Alas: the tomb was empty with exception of the glass coffin. Paul's body was no more with the coffin, which was still intact. The coffin, that was. Not Paul's body. Because Paul's body was gone.  
  
GONE.  
  
John cried babytears.  
  
  
And then the next chapter happened.  
  
John discovered, some way or another, that the Paul in the coffin had never been a real Paul but an electronic device put together by Linda who had previously undiscovered talents for such things. Possibly because of this, John returned to the Scottish farm that was plopped into the countryside for no particular reason other than people having to live there to perform further indigestigation. Investigation. One of those two.  
  
When he arrived at the attic, he found Paul's dead body. It was not difficult to tell he was, since this version of dead Paul was definitely rotting and spreading the most god awful stench ever which made John puke all over Linda who was still busy scrambling up the worn and slippery stairs.  
  
That exact moment it was clear to John that Linda had killed Paul and dragged him upstairs to hide the body, but his weakened body couldn't carry out any action so Linda did instead. She locked John up in the stables to have him trampled by the cows, but forgot John was Jesus reincarnated and was heavily surprised when she found John telling stories about love and peace to the cattle the next morning.  
  
Then the poor woman started to regret her decision of murdering her husband because John started preaching about no-violence and no-war and especially no-murdering and no-meat. She took John upstairs again, convinced he possessed the Holy Spirit, and indeed he turned out to have exactly that because he managed to bring Paul back to life. His previously so pretty face remained half-rotten and disfigured though. John quickly made a wax mask for Paul and John kissed Paul then and because the balance had to be restored (mostly the balance of Paul's emotions of course) Paul took the hay fork nearby and killed Linda with it.  
  
From that moment on, John too seemed to have to disappeared off the handsome and teary face of the earth.  
  
They lipped heavenly after never in their Scottish farm where they grew their own vegetables and let the cows and chickens run free since they ate microbiotically created food and nothing that belonged too animals, a bit like real veganists really.  
  
Yoko continued to mourn John while Cynthia wrote a lot of books about him and got really rich and George and Ringo reunited for the Anthology DVD set and book and CDs, except it obviously wasn't a real reunion because John and Paul weren't there and they made the Beatles and Pete and Stuart weren't there either so really it was only one third of the Beatles. So the Beatles bled to a slow and painful death (except people kept listening to and buying their music) due to all what happened on that Scottish farm in the Middle of Nowhere near to the Mull of Kintyre in the Landscape John hated dreadfully much except now he got to see Naked Paul which was his salvation and that only because Linda couldn't cope with her long-contained jealousy for Paul's ex-lover (John, that was) and her own lesbianisity.  
  
  
  
~the end.


End file.
